SLAMMIN'

by Marcus Cootsona

  Red loved the California desert and told anyone who’d listen that he thought New Yorkers who didn’t were hegemenous twits who suffered from trial-by-weather syndrome. And if anyone was still listening after that, he pointed out that the Open had already moved twice before. And that The Indian Wells Tennis Garden was a dead-ringer, body-double for Flushing Meadows. Except without a hurricane. And the snorfy traffic.

  At the moment of his decision, if anyone had checked, it was 110 in Indian Wells, calm and very dry. Red felt smart, smug and superior.

  Wally and Willy felt just the opposite. And then some. Their tight and tidy plan had just cocked into a dropped hat.

  Life wasn’t all skeer and bittles any more. It was foul weather, shifting venues and expensive plane tickets. Chaos had just roiled the budget. Benny Mandelbrot and the Big Guy must be loving this.

  Fortunately, there was Ashley Margincall.

  Ashley was staying at the Manhattan apartment too. Who knew the Margincalls owned all four floors? Ashley was speaking at the U.N. about her work in Africa. Afterward, she was Black-Carding some appointment-only boutiques with no appointment. Giving as always, she offered Wally, Willy, Zelda and Rod Laver the Dog use of the Margincall fractional at PGA West in the California desert, and seats on her jet leaving for LA that evening.

  It was a good thing too. There were no other options. That plan, her plan was now the new plan. The Ashley ex machina had dropped in, solved all present problems and aligned all the orbs. Everyone was happy. All was well. They were dry and safe. It all felt right again.

  The alignment lasted until the moment they boarded the jet.

  There, sitting in the first seat, with a smile and a stuffed toy dolphin, was Agent Flint.

  NINETEEN

  Wally did a double double-take.

  Seated next to Flint, holding a tiny net, was Agent Steel.

  Why were they here? What was with the props? And why did the plane smell like Prada Candy perfume?

  The agents both stood. Flint seat-beached the furry cetacean and shook Wally’s hand. Steel held onto the net and stayed still. Guess he wasn’t a shaker.

  “Congratulations on that roll over Juan Carlos,” said Flint.

  “Juan David, actually. But thanks.”

  “That was my next guess. And come to think of it, didn’t Tolstoy say, ‘Clay court players are all alike; every hardcourt player plays on hardcourts in their own way’?”

  “Either him or Pat Rafter,” said Wally.

  “My next next guess,” said Flint.

  Ashley breezed on board and air-hugged Agent Flint. Steel nodded and stayed stoic. Apparently, he wasn’t a hugger either.

  “Miss Margincall,” said Flint.

  “Agent Flint.”

  She knew them?

  Flint turned back to Wally and explained, “We were in town meeting with Ashley and her father on some pre-IPO funding.”

  Of course they were.

  “Wait a minute,” said Wally. “Your agency’s going public?”

  “Just financially,” assured Flint. “We’ll still be top secret, classified and beyond oversight.”

  “Glad to hear it. Then congratulations to you too.”

  “Thank you. We had to do something. If we waited for Congress to act, we’d all be dead.”

  “Or undersubscribed,” said Ashley. “Which is the same thing. According to my father.”

  Two male super-model flight attendants strode up out of somewhere and attended to her, their chiseled features and white teeth set off by burnished teak tans. One gave Ashley a gloppy green smoothie and the better-looking one took her shopping bags. Zelda photographed everything they did. Not all of it for her blog.

  Willy whispered to his brother, “Bro, whatever happened to curvy stewardesses?”

  Zelda cut in, “Evolution, dude.”

  Wally nodded to his brother.

  As always, Ashley was the princess. In a red Prada suit and a gossamer blouse, she took everyone’s light. “It takes a lot to move my father,” she continued. “He passed up Zynga, Facebook and Groupon. But he’s balls in on the alphabets. He thinks counter-intel rocks.”

  She took off her jacket and handed it to the first hunky steward. The blouse underneath was sheer as audacity. Which could also have been her middle name. And who’s to say it wasn’t?

  “So there’s today’s sound bite. And now I’m going to undress for bed,” she announced.

  Oh, my Lord, thought Wally. Right here?

  Reading his thoughts, she added, “In my cabin.” She paused and played to the room. “I’ll see you all in LA. Wally, if you’d care to help.”

  “Thank you, Ashley. But you seem to be able to undress yourself perfectly.”

  “But it’s more fun with a buddy. Like scuba.”

  “Agent Flint and I are actually in the middle of something.”

  “Speaking of,” said Ashley. “Thought you might want to see my Brazilian – tan.”

  “It looks fine from here,” said Wally.

  “I know it does. But you have to ask yourself. Is it even?”

  “I trust you,” said Wally,

  Ashley started unbuttoning her top.

  “You do? Have I ever given you a reason to?” Then, to everyone, “Drinks are coming. Dinner’s in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” said Agent Flint.

  “And for the air lift,” said Willy.

  “Sucroliscious,” said Ashley. “I’ve always wanted to get miles up with friends.”

  She took a step up the aisle.

  “Or get with friends miles up,” whispered Zelda.

  Ashley let another button go. “So, Wally?”

  “Ashley?”

  She beckoned him through her lids, “Don’t worry. They’ll bring in your iron curtain gruel.” Unbuttoning more. “I wouldn’t want you to go off the regimen.”

  Staying right where he was, Wally said, “Thanks for understanding.”

  Seeing that Wally was really not coming with her, Ashley turned, walked up the aisle and simultaneously ruined Flint’s, Steel’s and Willy’s evenings by freeing the last buttons just as she entered her cabin.

  A collective man-sigh.

  Now she was sui generis. As self-possessed as family money. And twice as tempting. A conundrum wrapped in an endowment. But even that didn’t quite cover it. Or her.

  What was the right opinion about Ashley Margincall? Was her behavior provocative or organic? Or both? Was she from a different era? Or planet? Or did the extreme wealth and opportunities just mold her differently than all other girls her age?

  A nation needed guidance.

  In some previous centuries, women her age were married with children and halfway through their lives. Ashley was in high school. That seemed trivial. And irrelevant. And wasteful. She knew jack. Or else she was trying to. Why couldn’t she be an adult sexual being at seventeen in this century? What was the magic or meaning of eighteen to someone like her? Did we sometimes keep our kids adolescents for too long, for no real reason?

  Or just Ashley?

  Flint turned to Wally, “Impressive self-control. I would trust you with the launch codes.”

  Wally smiled and breathed out from his mouth and nose. “Thanks.”

  “If I had them,” said Flint.

  Willpower, thought Wally. Mystical. Misunderstood. Ashley’s drug of choice. But the antidote was simple. If you didn’t want something, you didn’t want it. If you did, you took the steps to get it. Wally just wanted Danielle. Ashley wanted attention.

  Back to Flint, “So am I glad to see you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What? Has she been re-re-kidnapped?”

  “No. Still with the same bad guys. But we think we know where she is. And who they are.”

  The flight attendants sat down, strapped in their eight-pack abs, heaving chests and thirty-inch waists. And posed. Zelda snapped some shots. One of them picked up the intercom mic and unavoidably flexed a bronzed, cleft triceps.
She snapped again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a commercial flight. You can do what you want. If it were me, I’d buckle up. We’re about to take off.”

  The manly, hairless, Uffizi-ready arm stowed the mic and flexed again.

  Thank god for digital, thought Zelda.

  The Gulfstream taxied out expensively. Vanilla and caramel gave way to orange blossoms, linen and takeoff.

  Flint and Wally sat. Everyone put on a seatbelt and Wally buckled Rod Laver the Dog in his seat.

  Once they were airborne, Flint continued confidentially. “A Delta guy we know who works this stuff found a group in a radical chat room. They call themselves the Lindh-ites, after John Walker Lindh, the Marin kid who joined Al-Qaeda. Mr. Delta thinks they’re a bunch of aimless, rich, white kids who want to avenge Bin Laden’s death on 9/11.”

  “What does this have to do with Danielle?”

  Flint held up the stuffed dolphin.

  “Do you know what collateral bycatch is?”

  “A big night at a bar?”

  “Close, Carnac,” said Flint. “But that’s okay. I didn’t either.”

  Flint nodded. Steel held up his tiny net. They mimed an HO-scale cod trawl.

  “When fisherman drag nets for small fish, they often, accidentally, catch big, important ones.”

  “Like dolphins?”

  “Exactly. Mr. Delta wove some threads together over the last few weeks and thinks this group recently caught a dolphin in Lake Tahoe.”

  Wally was puzzled. “A dolphin in Lake Tahoe?”

  “Northeast shore to be exact. At the house we searched. Right around the time your wife and Donald Grosser were re-taken.”

  “So is this a lead?”

  “It’s a clue.”

  “And who’s the dolphin? Grosser?”

  “We don’t think so. Someone else. A woman. But not Danielle.”

  “One of the bankers?”

  “Possibly. Incline had a rash of tech lord smash-and-grabs this summer. Various fringe groups dialing for ransom dollars, nabbing the rich and arrogant. During a fundraiser kidnapping, we believe this group accidentally pulled in someone extra valuable in their net. That’s why there’ve been no demands yet.”

  The plane leveled out. The models got up and got busy. Zelda was mesmerized watching their bustling buns bound around the cabin.

  Wally pressed on, “You said the dolphin was useful. For what?”

  “As far as we can tell from the chatter, to help them get four presents for their 9/11 celebration.”

  “Presents?”

  “Anybody’s guess. Nukes. Sarin. Ricin. We don’t know.”

  “Jesus.”

  “These kids may be posers, but we think they pose a serious threat.”

  “Mister Jesus.”

  “They were in New York. But this morning, we back-traced one of their communications to an area southeast of LA. We should know a city by the time we land tonight.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Stay strong. Especially on serve. And win the Open. I have nine different bets and a fantasy season riding on you.”

  “Great. Thanks. Is that it?”

  “I think so. Not much else we can do from up here.”

  The flight attendants had changed into tuxedos. They served Pol Roger Rose and a fresh ahi salad.

  Flint eyed the salad. “That’s ironic.”

  “That’s ahi,” said Willy. “And I’m starved.”

  “Me too,” said Zelda, eyeing the cabin crew.

  Wally usually was, but not right then.

  Willy, Zelda, Flint and Steel enjoyed a full three-stars’ worth of food, wine, coffee, scotch and cigars. Wally ate his touring pro dinner purely from reflex. Rod Laver the Dog ate his from scraps on the Tufenkian carpet. Ashley did not join them. She smoothied alone in her cabin.

  Teenagers and their rooms, thought Wally. Even at 35,000 feet.

  After dinner, Flint and Steel smirked their way through an unreleased cut of J.Edgar, and Rod Laver the Dog slept. The plane’s glamorous Eric Roth interior was therapeutically aromed by Amber Oud from the Agar tree. And later, Italian leather. It was all pretty far north of Southwest.

  Wally, Willy and Zelda stayed up but didn’t say much. Wally spelunked back into the pit of worry over Danielle, the Lindh-ites and their 9/11 presents. Zelda texted, typed and took more photos. And Willy may have been thinking about Sophie. Or the Nike deal. Or how in the world they got here.

  He broke the silence once. “You smell all that? This is like Chick Air. And I still think the guy stewardess thing is weird.”

  Flint turned to him, “They’re SEALs.”

  But Willy was back in his thoughts.

  The flight was fast. Even so, the flight hunks changed outfits twice more, did a few side planks and worked on their screenplays. They all arrived in Los Angeles at nine p.m. local time.

  When they got up to go, there was still no Ashley. Wally wondered if he’d offended their teenage host.

  One of the supermodels brought Wally an envelope and a key.

  “Miss Margincall hopes you’ve had a pleasant flight,” he said. “Her father called and she regrets she has to head back home to start senior year.”

  I’m sure she does, thought Wally.

  “Here are the keys and information for the PGA West property,” the model attendant went on. “Miss Margincall has left you a car. The GPS is programmed to your destination. If you follow the posted speed limits, it will take two hours and ten minutes to travel there. Good luck with that.”

  They deplaned. The LA evening was warm as an Eagles song. Wally noticed the four, black, bestickered Suburbans formed up on the tarmac. Purring next to them was an immaculately-detailed, silver Aston Martin Rapide and a man next to it, holding a sign that said, “Wilson U.S. Open Shuttle.” In Wally’s opinion, the Aston was the best of the big money four-passengers. A sleek, trusty double-0 grocery mare. Of the other contenders, the Ferrari FF was humped up like a swollen BMW M Coupe and the poor overyeasted Panamera was a Poppin’ Fresh 911. But those Brits could draw some curves.

  The 5.9 liter, V-12 Rapide zeroed to sixty in five and stopped counting at one-ninety. And looked like an Aston. For a very fast family. Under other circumstances, this could be a fun, summer’s night’s blast out to the sand and cactus. But tonight, under the current circumstances, it was a twisted test of denial and compartmentalizing. The interlude of privilege and wealth he might never experience again clashed with his worries about Danielle and the terrorists. Just thinking about it, Wally felt some fresh, sharp adrenal pangs.

  Great. More arm strength.

  How did other people in this situation do it? Could anyone with a kidnapped wife think of anything else? How could he even consider savoring anything with her gone?

  None of this was simple.

  Or normal.

  Or clear.

  And given more thought, it seemed even murkier. With what he now knew, Wally wondered if he, Willy, Zelda, his dog and the entire ATP Tour had just escaped an Old Testament flood only to fall prey to an older testament annihilation.

  Annoyingly, it was strength of character time again.

  Did the U.S. Open money really mean that much to him? Well, yeah. But shouldn’t he tell the tournament what he knew? Again, yeah. But what did he really know? The threat was vague and maybe these faux-caida kids were just pranksters. There were two solutions. Flint needed to find the Lindh-ites and Danielle and the presents. That would help Wally and the agency’s valuation. And Wally just needed to trust and play tennis.

  Right. That would be easy.

  Mixed emotions stirring and frothing, Wally, Willy, Zelda and Rod Laver the Dog climbed into the rapid Rapide and sped off to the 10 and out to the desert, drafting gratefully behind the Flint’s multisponsor Suburbancade, leading the way at Talladega speeds. Rod particularly loved the ventilated back seats.

  This was fast and unexpected. The whole day was.

  W
here were they going? What city did Mr. Delta find? And did Flint get founder’s shares in the agency? Wally hoped so. Owners always treated the business better. Profit. You could trust that.

  TWENTY

  The first man on the sun said it best.

  “Hot. Hot.”

  That was Indian Wells in late August. So hot trees were whistling to dogs. So hot cows were giving latte foam. So hot you could fry an egg on a Carson monologue.

  Hot.

  But dry. Very dry. And that was the point. It was a desert. It would be dry.

  Dry enough to hold the highest-attended annual sporting event in the world within its allotted two weeks. Dry enough for a Sunday, 9/11 finish. And certainly dry enough for those nattering New York nabobs to stuff their negativity at Red Numbers’ executive decision. A decision he felt was years overdue. They could resist it, but Red had made it. It was happening and he was confident. His Open was going to start and finish on time. He may have been a gambler and a loose cannon, but he was going to be the guy who saved the U.S. Open. Just ask him. It was Saturday, August 27 and Red was feeling happy, vindicated and bulletproof. If the OZ was the “Happy Slam”, his U.S. Open was going be the “Zippy Slam”.

  And so Red began to think a few steps ahead and consider fully what he may have wrought. And that made him even more happy. This Open was going to be disruptive. Punctual, but disruptive. He liked disruption. Just as long as it wrapped up by the second Sunday.

  Even as a suit in a suite, Red didn’t act like a seed. He had a grinder’s gut and a second-rounder’s shoulder chip. He secretly wanted some commotion and deconstruction. For the good of the game. In his view, the top players had advantages over the unranked-and-file. Easier travel. More practice time. Better housing. Steadier delicto. And a more settled routine at the Majors. The Tour seemed designed to keep the top at the top. But this year’s radical geographical dislocation could randomize some rituals and roust some routines. And then, who knew how the seeds would do?

  But still, Red was no Bolshevik, commie or EU charity case. Three things that, like his cat, often blurred in his eyes after a couple of Macallans. He was fully aware that as in Golf, the ratings, renown and revenue in Tennis all flowed from the top stars. It was, after all, an individual sport and it demanded, needed and fed off of its icons. He just thought that the sport should do more to promote the downticket journeymen and build its future audience. Luckily, the wormhole they’d all dropped into promised hope, upheaval and maybe even change.